


Well, I Can Tell You What We Weren't Doing...

by Itsagrifthing



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: In the shade, M/M, One Shot, Season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 20:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9256424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsagrifthing/pseuds/Itsagrifthing
Summary: Hint-- they actually weren't reenacting the coolest scene from Dukes of Hazzard ever.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in Season 3, episode 46 "We're being watched"  
> Idk the idea just popped into my head during the episode. I hope you enjoy!

Simmons was so flustered that he didn’t even notice the skull he stepped over. His hand was shaking as thoughts nervously flitted throughout his mind. What were they going to tell Sarge? He glanced at Grif out of the side of his eye, and the sight calmed him down a bit. At least, if he was going down, he wasn’t going down alone. And it was mostly Grif’s fault anyway.  

“Grif! Simmons! Where’ve you been?” Sarge shouted at them, his gravelly, southern voice carrying well across the landscape and grinding through Simmons’ ears. He hesitated, at a loss for what to say.

“Our patrol didn’t go as exactly as planned, Sarge,” he said, buying himself some time. Grif snorted, and Simmons was glad he was wearing a helmet, as he was pretty sure his own face currently matched his CO’s armor.

“Did you find something?” Sarge questioned, and then paused. “Wait a minute, where’s the jeep?” Simmons glanced at Grif. _Got any bright ideas, fatass?_

“Yeaaaah, it’s like this…” Grif started, but Sarge interrupted him, his voice dangerously low.

“Grif… I just built that jeep! I don’t want to hear that it’s been destroyed!” Grif shrugged.

“Oh, well then maybe I should stop talking. Or you can stop listening.”

“Grif!” Sarge growled. Simmons, having regained control of his shaking hand, decided to speak up, because whatever he could make up off the top of the head is better than what Grif was saying.

“No no no no, it’s not destroyed, Sarge,” he assured the old man desperately. “The engine just quit.” He cut off there, feeling rather proud of himself.

“And what exactly what were you doing when the engine quit?” _Shit._ Simmons hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“Duh, getting the jeep out of the ditch,” Grif jumped in, saving Simmons again. Although, he had probably just dug them into a deeper hole.

“What was the jeep doing in a ditch?” Sarge snarled menacingly. His piercing glare was burning a hole through his helmet. The two glanced at each other nervously, each desperately willing the other to say something-- _anything._ All the while, Sarge was clenching his shotgun tighter and tighter.

Finally, Grif spoke up. “Well I can tell you what we _weren’t_ doing. And that was reenacting the coolest scene from _Dukes of Hazzard_ ever.”

Sarge growled, and Simmons noticed with a start that the safety on his shotgun was off.

“Simmons was driving,” Grif added quickly, obviously noticing the gun as well. Simmons gaped at him.

“No I wasn’t!” He said quickly, thinking of anything to say. He went with the first thing that popped into his head. “I was holding the arrows and the dynamite.”

Yup. They were totally dead.

 

* * *

 

As much as Grif insisted, they were _not_ reenacting the scene from _Dukes of Hazzard._ Although, what they were doing instead was probably just as good.

Grif insisted that he drive on this patrol, since Simmons nearly ran them into the ocean the last two times he drove. Simmons didn’t argue. He hopped in the back, preferring sore heels over _no_ heels.  

Fortunately (or _unfortunately,_ depending on who you ask), Grif driving also meant that he could pick the music, and Simmons’ couldn’t do shit about it. Immediately, Grif flipped to the local mexican station, and peppy _Tejano_ music blasted through the speakers. Simmons groaned.

“Really, Grif? Couldn’t we go _classical_ for once?” He shouted over the radio. Grif just turned up the volume, opting to ignore him than deliver a snarky response (Hey, sometimes sarcasm was tiring!). He turned on the ignition, and started down the nearest path, going-- as Simmons so kindly pointed out during their lunch break-- _way_ over than the speed limit. Grif argued that the speed limit was probably a lot higher in the future, given that they probably had hoverboards or something before all the humans died out.

“Really?” Simmons said. “Then why can’t we find any sign of advanced technology-- like hoverboards-- anywhere?”

“Obviously, because the asteroid wiped them all out,” Grif retorted. “ _Dur.”_ Simmons rolled his eyes and turned away.

“Dumbass,” he muttered. Grif stole a bite of his sandwich when Simmons wasn’t looking.

Thirty minutes later, they were back on the road. Simmons insisted that Grif drive slower this time, especially since they were heading into rocky territory.

“What? You scared?” Grif teased.

“Scared of crashing and dying a horrible, painful death alongside _you,_ no less?” Simmons sighed, exasperated. “Yeah, a little.” Grif snickered.

“Sissy.” Simmons shook his head.

“You know what? Let’s just go. I’ll hope for a quick death.” Grif shrugged and hopped into the driver’s seat.

“Whatever you say,” he muttered, smiling wickedly, and slammed his foot on the gas. The jeep rocketed forward, knocking Simmons-- who had still been getting on-- off his feet.

“Grif!” he screamed, half terrified, half _pissed._ “Slow down!” Grif turned up the music louder. Simmons grabbed desperately at the turret, trying to regain balance.

They hit a rock, and the jeep sailed into the air. Simmons lost his footing again, and was hanging on just by his hands. They slammed onto the ground, bouncing once. Simmons’ jaw rattled and knocked together. “Grif!” he shouted again. “Slow down, asshole!” His cries were lost to the wind as they whipped around a corner. Simmons groaned and wrapped his whole torso around the turret.

Grif just whooped and hollered as they hit another rock and went soaring. He glanced in the rearview mirror as they landed to make sure Simmons was still with him. He was, but he was holding the turret with a deathly grip. Grif frowned. He knew he should probably slow down, or risk Simmons hating him forever, but a particularly large rock caught his eye.

Just one more jump, he decided, then he’ll stop. What could possibly go wrong?

He should have known better than to ask that.

With five yards to go, Grif sped up (was it possible to go any faster than they already were? Apparently). The Tejano music was piping away, building up to a large climax Grif wanted to time with the jump. He slammed the gear-shift to the last position and slammed the pedal all the way to the floor. He whooped in harmony with Simmons’ scream as they hit the rock head-on, and launched into the air.

For a blissful few seconds, they hovered in the air. It was an incredible sensation, the feeling of weightlessness. Next to him, discarded bolts and wrenches lifted off the seat. Grif could feel a grin stretching across his face, bigger than he’s had in years. They flew over sandy hills, and Grif could see _everything._ The ocean, the makeshift base they had built, O’Malley’s base… everything. And in his rearview mirror, he could see Simmons, clutching onto the turret for dear life. _Incredible._

And then gravity caught them in its clutches, and they were plummeting down.

And then they hit the ground. Hard.

And then they were upside down, and those same nuts and bolts that had floated in the air seconds before were floating again, but this time a lot faster, and in every different direction. Grif felt a few slam into his helmet, and felt a sharp pain in the back of his head.

In his rearview mirror, Grif could still see Simmons. That was good.

They rolled right-side up again. He checked the mirror again. Simmons was gone this time. That was bad.

The jeep flipped one more time, tossing Grif out of the front seat, before finally coming to a halt under a large rock.

Grif landed on his back, gasping as the air was knocked out of him. Slowly, after taking a few seconds, he pushed himself up. The dust cleared, and he could see the jeep. It was miraculously right side up, and after a quick glance, only a hubcap and the fender were missing. He sighed in relief. Maybe Sarge wouldn’t notice, then he and Simmons could just go take a nice nap or something-- _Simmons!_

Grif stumbled to his feet.

“Simmons?!” he wheezed. He looked wildly around, searching for signs of maroon. But goddamn, this _whole_ _place_ was some shade of red. “Simmons!”

After what seemed like hours, he heard a noise to his left. Grif staggered over to it, checking behind a large rock. He sighed in relief as he saw an armored body laying there, half covered by sand. He dropped to his knees beside Simmons, and yanked off his dusty maroon helmet. Simmons’ cyborg parts glinted in the sun.

“Simmons?” Grif asked, checking for any injuries. He found none, and Simmons coughed weakly. “Hey, wake up already, will ya?” At his command, Simmons’ eyes fluttered open.

“ _Asshole_ ,” he muttered breathlessly, and shoved Grif away. He pushed himself upright and groaned. “Oh my god, the back of my head.”

Grif sighed and pulled off his own helmet. “You probably hit it when you fell off the jeep,” he said wisely. Simmons’ rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, no shit.” The two of them lapsed into a brief silence as Simmons’ dropped his head into his hands. Grif awkwardly brushed sand off his helmet. He cleared his throat as Simmons’ raised his head again.

“Hey, look I’m sorry--”

“You know, that was actually kinda fun--” They said at the same time. They stared at each other.

“Woah, what?” Simmons said, shocked. “Were you actually _apologizing?”_

“Uh. No,” Grif mumbled. He didn’t want to say it again. “Did you say it was _fun?!”_ Simmons blushed.

“M-maybe,” he stammered. Grif kept staring.

“Dude.”

“What?” Simmons said defensively.

“I thought your idea of fun was like… math problems and shit.” Simmons scowled.

“I’m not as one-dimensional as you _think_ I am, Grif.” Grif nodded.

“Right. Uh, my bad.” They lapsed into a silence again, just as awkward as the first. Grif wiped sweat off his forehead and tugged at his armor.

“Damn, it’s hot,” he muttered. Simmons scoffed.

“You think this bad, _I_ am part _metal_ .” Grif looked up towards the sun, shielding his eyes. “ _Maybe_ it has to do with the fact that we’re sitting in direct sunlight,” Simmons said sarcastically.

“Yeah, no shit dude” Grif retorted. He sighed and stood up. “Come on.”

“Where are you going?” Simmons asked.

“The _shade_ , duh. And then I’m going to take a nap.” Grif stuck out a hand. Simmons raised an eyebrow, but he accepted the hand. Once they were both standing, Grif bent over and picked up their helmets.

“I can get it…” Simmons started, but Grif just shook his head.

“It’s fine man. Whatever.” He pushed past Simmons and into the shade. Simmons started as he glimpsed the back of Grif’s head.

“Grif! You’re bleeding!” Grif dropped both helmets into the back of the jeep, and his hand flew to the back of his head.

“I am?” When he pulled his hand away, it was covered in blood. “Holy shit!” he yelped. Simmons rolled his eyes, and followed his to the jeep.

“How can you _not_ know that you’re injured?” He threw open the door on the passenger’s side and opened the glove compartment. “I think there’s a first aid kit in here somewhere…” Grif sat down on a rock, wincing and pressing a glove to his injury. “Here it is!” Simmons yelled triumphantly, then walked over to Grif. He knelt down behind him.

“Care-- _ow!_ Hey! I said, careful!” Grif whined as Simmons began treating the wound. He huffed as Simmons applied something. “Ow!”

Simmons rolled his eyes. “Whimp.”

“How about you go fuck-- _ow!--_ off.” Grif muttered, eyeing a bloody cloth Simmons dropped beside him. “Um. Is there supposed to be that much blood?” Simmons nodded.

“It’s fine. Head wounds always _look_ worse than they actually are,” he assured Grif. “Now, I’m almost…”

“Ow!”

“Done!” Simmons stretched out his arms, admiring his first aid job. Grif winced as he reached around and gingerly touched the base of his skull. Simmons swatted his hands away. “Don’t touch it! You don’t want to knock out the stitches.”

“You put in _stitches_?!”

“Well, just butterfly stitches. They’re more like small bandages than actual needle and thread,” Simmons amended. “But they’re pretty much the same thing.” Grif twisted to look at him, ready to snap at him. But-- _holy shit._

The sunlight glinted off of Simmons’ metallic cheek just enough to make him look striking. The shade, however, accented his bright blue eyes that stared down at Grif with concern. His normally styled red hair was rough and messy, and Grif decided that looked much better this way. From the bottom, his jawline was neatly defined, and his smattering of freckles fit perfectly with the rest of his face. Grif couldn’t take his eyes away.

 

Now, Grif was not someone to act on impulses-- unless, of course, it had to do with sleeping or eating. The sudden urge to go outside? Nah, that can wait until tomorrow. The impulse to shoot Sarge every time he was made the brunt of a joke? Nah, he didn’t want to have to clean up the mess. The impulse to just run screaming across the canyon and charge blue base because then maybe something _interesting_ would happen? Yeah, better not.

But this impulse… well, he didn’t exactly shove it out of his mind immediately. It wasn’t the first time he had this impulse-- it came every so often when he and Simmons were alone on the roof of their base, just talking. It came occasionally when Grif would say something, and instead of Simmons rolling his eyes, he would laugh. And sometimes, it even came when Simmons would yell at him to _‘stop smoking in your goddamn helmet,’_ or _‘for the love of God Grif, take a shower.’_ Because it meant he cared.

They had two hours before they were supposed to report back to Sarge.

So when this impulse came, Grif decided to finally act on it.

 

“Grif?” Simmons wondered if he accidentally knocked a nerve or something in Grif’s brain when he was putting on the stitches, because his face had taken on an odd look, and was staring at Simmons intently. “Everything okay?” Grif simply tilted his head, and Simmons felt himself unable to break away from the intense gaze that held his eyes. He shifted. “Grif?” Grif just sighed, and began to pull off his gauntlets, one after the other.  

“Fuck it.” Grif’s arm flew out, and before he knew it, Simmons was being dragged down and towards him.

“Grif--?” He jerked to a stop as their chest plates clacked together.

“Stupid _armor_ ,” Grif growled, and he yanked Simmons down to a better angle.

“What--” Simmons gasped as he suddenly felt warm lips on his, pressing insistently into his mouth. A shiver trickled down his spine, and he felt a flame kindle in the pit of his stomach. Grif’s lips were chapped, but that was okay-- what do you expect, being in a hot, sandy desert? One of Grif’s hands was holding his chest plate down, and his other slid up to wrap around the back of Simmons’ neck. Simmons’ skin tingled in the places where Grif’s fingers brushed, sending more shivers down his spine. Simmons’ own arms dangled uselessly against his side, unsure of what to do with them and-- _holy shit._ Grif pulled him in closer. Simmons’ lips parted, and suddenly he couldn’t think, couldn’t breath, and his face felt hot, so very hot (but so was Grif)... wait, what? Simmons didn’t know what was happening anymore, his brain was foggy. Subconsciously, he lifted a hand and clasped it around the one Grif had on his armor. But as soon as they touched, Grif jerked away.

Simmons’ lips felt inexplicably cold, even though they were in the desert, and a small whimper escaped him. He stared at Grif’s dark eyes, his own wide open with question.

“Grif…?” he whispered, breathing hard. Gently, Grif removed his hand from Simmons’ neck, and again, the places where he had touched felt cold in the absence of touch. He released Simmons’ armor gently, but Simmons didn’t straighten up (he didn’t think he _could,_ given how hard his legs were shaking).

“Uh,” he said intelligently. “Um.” Grif just sighed and stood up. He turned away without a word, and started towards the jeep, leaving a very confused Simmons behind in the sand.

 

 _‘No regrets,’_ Grif chided himself silently once he reached the jeep. _‘Remember, you can’t have any regrets about it. It’s done.’_ But he was also thinking, _‘Stupid. Stupid, Stupid! What the hell were you thinking, idiot?!’_ Fuck. _What did he just do?_

He sure as hell didn’t want to spend the rest of his life with this awkward sexual tension between he and Simmons.

But then again… it had felt _good._ Finally satisfying that impulse. And Simmons’ wasn’t as bad a kisser as Grif thought he would be. Of course, there were some things he could work on next time-- _No, you idiot! There won’t_ be _a next time…_

Yep. What’s done is--

Simmons cleared his throat. “Um, Grif?” Grif jumped and turned around.

“Dude! Don’t sneak up on me like that…” he trailed off as he glanced at Simmons’ very red (and very beautiful-- _no, shut up idiot, stop thinking like that!)_ face. He hesitated.

“Um, about--” Simmons started. Grif immediately waved it off, suddenly desperate to avoid this conversation.

“Forget it. It never happened.” _What the fuck, of course it happened! How is he just supposed to forget that?_

“No! That’s not what…” Simmons tried. Grif furrowed his eyebrows. What is he…? Simmons cleared his throat again. “I just… it, um. It was very…” his voice cracked, making him sound a lot more timid than he wanted to be. His eyes automatically flicked to the ground. “Very… um. Nice.” Simmons winced, cursing himself. He took a deep breath, and very slowly looked up to Grif.

If Simmons’ face got any redder, Grif was pretty sure it would explode.

“Oh,” Grif said, at a loss for words for once. He searched Simmons’ face, which had an odd kind of determination in it. He almost looked… cool. He watched Simmons take a deep breath, and he knew what was coming before it came. His eyes fluttered shut.

This time, Simmons’ was actually prepared. He knew to position himself so that their armor wouldn’t get between them. He copied what Grif had done, pulling his chest plate down. He pressed their lips together, and he felt that same fire in the pit of his stomach, that same shiver down his spine. That same tingle as Grif rested his hands on Simmons’ hips, even though they were both wearing armor.

Simmons’ brought his hand up, and wrapped it around behind Grif’s neck. Grif jerked as his fingers brushed against the stitches, and Simmons’ yanked his hand away.

“Oh geez, I’m sorry--” he started to say, but Grif leaned into him, effectively shutting him up.

They stayed like that for a while, both of them hitting the peak of the jump, floating in the air, and everything was weightless. Just… weightless.

 

After an indeterminable amount of time, Simmons pulled away. He glanced at the clock on the jeep. His heart rose into his throat.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” he cursed. They had only ten minutes before they were supposed to report back. “We’ve gotta go!” Grif groaned, comfortable in his position. They had both moved so Grif was pressed against the driver’s side door.

“Do we have to?”

“Yes!” Simmons shouted, opening the door and pushing him into the driver’s seat. He jumped into the gunner position and threw Grif his helmet. “Go!” Grif sighed and put on his helmet. He put the key into the ignition, and turned it.

The car didn’t start.

Grif frowned and turned it again. The jeep rumbled, then stalled. Grif tried it again. Nothing.

“Um, Simmons?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Wait a minute! This thing isn’t busted, it's just out of gas!” Sarge exclaimed after a lengthy examination of the jeep.  

“It runs on _gas?”_ Grif asked.

“Of course not moron, where are we gonna get gasoline? I modified the fuel cells to utilize a form of cold fission, powered by solar energy,” Sarge said, as if this made perfect sense.

“So then why is it dead sir?” Simmons questioned.

“You would have had to park it in the shade for at least two hours,” Sarge explained, then paused. He glared suspiciously at Grif and Simmons. Simmons’ felt simultaneously ice cold, and burning hot. He was glad his helmet was on. “What were you doing parked in the shade for two hours?” Grif and Simmons glanced each other. _What now?_

Grif shrugged.

“Well I can tell you what we _weren’t_ doing.”


End file.
